by Jim Krieg
“Heard he blew a Spanish test big time yesterday,” mumbled Gustafsson. “That was the tipping point to academic probation. Coach had to bench him.”
“That’s what you heard, huh?” I responded. “Too bad I can’t run what you ‘ heard.’ I want quotes, sources, and statistics. What does that lunkhead need to get on the next test to get back on the field?”
I couldn’t help notice that Tommy was still hovering around looking like he’d just swallowed a yogurt pop without checking the date on the tube. No, he looked worse than that. He reminded me of Quentin Brody just before he asked me to the Halloween Hop. A for effort, Quentin!
Then I knew. Tommy had something for me.
“I know that face,” I told him. “That’s a face of someone with news.”
Tommy’s eyes darted over the AP 5. Whatever story Tommy had to tell, it wasn’t public information. Needless to say, that’s when I suddenly became interested.
“You’re busy,” he said. “It can wait.”
If you’re going to be my diary, there are some things you’re going to need to know. For example, the first rule of journalism: The news can’t wait.
Neither could I. “Bernstein, six hundred words on the football team’s prospects without Nino. Gustafsson, I want those facts, and Johnson, editorial on Sprangue’s broken promise of more sixth-grade lockers. The rest of you, find news.”
My crack team lumbered to their feet and, after a particularly long interlude of chair squeaking and cafeteria tray collisions, raced off to their assignments with the speed and alacrity of a herd of aging, underfed oxen.
“You didn’t have to blow off your friends,” Tommy said.
“What friends?” I asked. “They’re reporters. I’ll make friends when I get to high school. Right now I’ve got a paper to run.”
Now, Tommy’s a bit touchy about our arrangement, so I thought better of ending on business. So I grinned and added, “Besides, it’s Beans ’n’ Franks Day. Best to get rid of them before the gasworks start up.”
Tommy laughed so hard I thought I was going to have to take him to the nurse. When dealing with boys, it’s always a good bet to go with the scatological material. They can’t get enough of it.
I wasn’t entirely kidding, either. Seems like every other Tuesday there’s enough natural gas in the cafeteria to supply the nation’s energy needs for the foreseeable future.
“What is it, Tommy?” I asked. “Spill.”
“What if . . .” he started, “hypothetically . . .”
Hypothetically? I didn’t even know Tommy knew the word hypothetically. Good for me. First rule of journalism: Hypothetically always means “this is absolutely true, but I don’t know if I should tell you.” This is the kind of stuff that I love.
“. . . I knew something about somebody. Somebody who’s supposed to be so great, but . . . you found out he wasn’t great at all.”
“Who is it?” I asked. First rule of journalism: Cover your W’s . . . who, what, when, where, and wow. I substitute wow for how, Diary, because it drives me nuts that one of the Ws starts with h. I mean, come on!
“Hypothetically,” he said, rather defensively, I thought.
“Hypothetically, you’d tell me,” I reminded him. “And I’d put it in the Liberty Bell, like always.”
This may have been a misstep by me. Tommy is touchy about our arrangement, but I don’t know why. How many times do I have to explain to him that the students of Rampart Middle have a right to be informed of all relevant information that pertains to them and not to be spoon-fed only those facts the powers-that-be deem “appropriate”? Also, he has every right to a passing grade in English, and if I choose to tutor him, that’s just me helping out a friend and nothing nefarious.
Tommy sighed. What was the problem? Why wouldn’t he tell me what he knew? Or at least who he knew it about? Then it hit me.
“You’d tell me . . . unless it was someone on Safety Patrol.”
I saw Tommy’s face change color, calling into question his future as a professional poker player.
Wait a minute! Did that mean what I thought/hoped/ prayed it did? A bad hall cop? Hallelujah! Please, yes! What a story!
“Maybe this was a mistake,” said Tommy, getting all antsy and fidgeting to leave. This was the dangerous part, if he bolted before I had him.
“It’s the blue wall of silence, right?” I asked.
Tommy stared at me blankly, and by that I mean more blankly than usual. He didn’t know what I meant. I’ve learned that part of my job as a journalist is to be an educator.
“The unspoken code of honor among Safety Patrol officers where they refuse to inform on one another,” I explained, adding pointedly, “regardless of whether it’s the right thing to do.” Emphasis mine. Because that’s how I said it.
Tommy’s eyes darted away from me, but I got the idea that it was not just out of avoidance. He was looking at something, so I followed his gaze to the exit side of the cafeteria. Yes, there’s an IN door and an OUT door, to control the flow. Feng shui from 1961.
Someone was coming in. Yes, through the exit, but not in the clueless “Oh, is this the wrong door?” way. It was a boy whose walk delivered an unspoken dare: “Yeah, I came through the wrong door, what are you going to do about it?”
“It was Griff Carver.”
“It’s the new guy!?” I blurted out, my reporter cool totally blown for the moment. “The hero?” This was too much! This new Hallway Patrolman had only been in school a week and everyone already knew him. Not that he said much. But he was hard not to notice. I’m not saying he’s cute, which I guess he could be. The girls noticed him, but I don’t think it was because of his Popstar! magazine cover-worthiness. It was his intensity. When this guy was on hall duty, you felt his eyes on you. Even when he wasn’t looking right at you.
“I didn’t say that!” snapped Tommy, his future as a professional poker player now nonexistent, as far as I was concerned. But now I was on dangerous ground, and this next part had to be played just right. If I pushed too hard and scared him off, I would rue the loss of this story the way Bianca Fuller regretted her ill-timed breakup with Tad Shore just before the yearbook staff voted on “cutest couple.” Some disappointments you don’t just snap back from.
I instantly retooled my mental headline SAFETY PATROL LEGEND LEADS DOUBLE LIFE OF CRIME into something more persuasive. “Tommy,” I asked, “do you have a picture of yourself that would go well with a hypothetical headline like HERO HALL MONITOR ROOTS OUT CORRUPTION?”
“Yes,” he said, picturing the front page.
“The Tommy I know,” I continued, “would never let some archaic tradition get in the way of his unswerving loyalty . . . to justice.” I said it just like that, too, with the pause for effect. “Am I wrong about you?”
“No,” answered Tommy, his little chin tightening in determination. “You’re not.”
“Now listen, Tommy,” I said putting my arm around him conspiratorially. “We’re gonna need proof. Mr. Button won’t let me print a story like this without it. He may be the coolest teacher, but he’s a stickler for proof. That’s where you come in, understand? Make no mistake, a story like this is huge. It could do really good things for us, or it could blow up in our face, like . . . lighting a match on Beans ’n’ Franks Day.”
Aunt Dede’s getting up! Thank, you Lord! I only have to write a little bit more in this flowery atrocity! That’s it, look how much Verity loves your gift. Verity writes so quickly! Say goodbye to Mom. Put your coat on. Ah, here you come to kiss me goodbye . . .
Goodbye!
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL SAFETY PATROL Incident Report
TO:
Delane Owens, Divisional CO
FROM:
Thomas Rodriguez, HP 2nd Class
DATE:
Monday, September 21, 2:41 p.m.
INCIDENT:
Cafeteria Surveillance
You know, officially, Delane, I probably
should’ve come right to you with my suspicions about Carver. I guess it has something to do with the blue wall of silence. And by that I mean how us hall cops don’t tell on each other unless it’s a really big deal. Which it is. Don’t feel dumb if you don’t know that expression. A lot of kids our age have never heard it before.
So, after a few days of solo time, completely by myself, considering this whole mess, I came to the conclusion that I needed to investigate further. I mean, you wouldn’t expect me to move forward without proof, right?
Well, I was in the cafeteria, mulling this over in my head, alone, when there was a small disturbance at the exit door that my acute cop internal radar immediately became aware of. Someone was coming in the out door. I was already reaching for my pad to issue this scofflaw an official warning (or, hopefully, he was a repeat offender and I could stick him with a demerit), when suddenly, I recognized him.
You guessed it. Carver.
What is it about this guy? The crowd of kids just kind of part for him. Not like they’re afraid of him, exactly. More like he radiates a sense of being on “official business.”
I was so focused I didn’t even say goodbye to Verity.
I mean, I didn’t even say hello to Verity when I passed by the table where she was holding court with her reporters as usual.
As you know, the routine chaos of Rampart’s cafeteria makes for great cover. I melted into the pandemonium and, gauging Griff’s trajectory, made my way toward what looked to be his destination. Guess where he was going.
Give up?
Forget it. You’ll never guess in a million years.
Marcus’s table. Yes, Marcus Volger’s table.
I know, right? What’s he want with Marcus? To my knowledge, they hardly know each other. I introduced them that first day when I was showing Griff the ropes. Then we ran into Marcus a couple times when we were on class-time monitor duty (Marcus must have a tiny bladder or something, but do not say that to anyone!).
Seriously, what did a once-expelled, dirty Hall Monitor like Griff Carver have to say to a squeaky clean populist like Marcus Volger? Of course, there was no way to know . . . for anyone without extensive surveillance experience.
Marcus owns that table. Everyone there is a FOM (friend of Marcus). Big Ben Gave was sitting with him, of course. And so was Morgan Boca with his million freckles. I knew my visible presence would negate any interesting and revealing conversation. The extensive required reading I did to earn my espionage merit badge led me to believe that I needed to vanish.
Thankfully, I had my Spy Bling gear with me. I know, I know. You and I don’t see eye to eye on the value of this versatile and effective set of play equipment from Clandestoys®. (Toys? Yeah, right!) Rest assured this is not another requisition for Night Vision Extreme! binoculars.
As I casually walked toward Volger’s table, I “accidentally” dropped a quarter on the cafeteria floor and disappeared from view as I bent to pick it up. Of course, I didn’t pick it up. And it wasn’t a quarter.
It was a Spy Bling covert listening coin, which I expertly rolled through a constantly shifting obstacle course of moving feet before it came to rest under Marcus’s table. All that was left for me to do was to tune in on my receiver and earpiece (which looks like an MP3 player, kind of) and pretend I was looking for a cool enough table.
“Hallway Patrolman Carver. We meet again.” That was Marcus. It was a little staticky, but that’s just the sort of thing he would say.
“We meet quite a bit, Marcus,” Griff answered. “In fact, you’re in the hallway a lot. More than any other kid I know.”
The static let me know that I’d have to inch my way closer in order to be where the action was. And if I wanted to stay invisible, I only had one option: Go low.
“That’s not a crime, is it?” Volger asked through the fuzz.
“No,” Carver agreed, adding, “not when you have proof of permission, like you always do.” This must have been some kind of small talk, so no big deal that I didn’t get it all.
There was a loud SQUEALCH in my ear and I lost them completely for a while. Casually moving as close as I dared, I then convincingly pantomimed having to tie my shoe (again, dramatics badge), scurried under the adjacent table, and tuned in the bug.
Finally the static cleared and I could hear them again. “Your boy here thought we could make some kind of deal,” Griff’s voice crackled over the earbuds. He sounded different. And it wasn’t just the static. The word deal dripped heavy with vice.
Let me just add here that the table I was using as cover was NOT empty. There were a lot of sixth graders at it, and they were a fidgety bunch, believe me. More than a few had the jimmy leg, and there was more than one near-collision between my head and their shoes. Not that I’m uncomfortable with a high-stress situation.
“Belton? I barely know him,” answered Marcus. Voice sounded totally normal. “He’s just a kid on my campaign team. There are a lot of kids campaigning for me. I can’t be held responsible for every random comment made by each and every one of my supporters.”
A wave of static BLEW OUT my ears. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
It was Beans ’n’ Franks Day. At the table above me, kids were shoveling down pinto beans and sliced hot dogs like it was the best thing they’d ever had. The gas was starting in earnest.
“Well, it’s like this,” Griff went on. “There’s always some smart kid who’s got the school wired. Not a spit wad gets shot, not a dweeb gets pantsed without his okay. A puppet master.”
Another bout of static washed away their conversation. I suspected that several kids at the table above me wore braces, and every time they opened their mouths, I was hit with interference.
What was Griff getting at? Was he making some kind of claim to the throne of Rampart Middle’s underworld kingpin? And why tell Volger, anyway? Maybe he was trying to warn him, in case Marcus won the election, that he’d better not mess with Griff. I found it hard to focus my thoughts, the noxious gases were getting so thick down there. Didn’t know how much exposure my body could withstand, but I had to hear more. I could just make out Griff’s voice through the static and the building waves of nausea.
“A smart kid might find it helpful to have a hall cop on his side. A guy who’ll look the other way, tell him when the heat’s on. For a price. A guy like me.”
Air . . . almost gone. But had to hang on . . . Had to figure out what Carver was saying . . .
“Griff, I can’t speak for my friends here,” Volger responded, apparently baffled, “but I don’t understand what you’re implying.”
My head was swimming. I had to focus. Use the intense concentration I have mastered as part of that after-school study techniques course. But it was so hard. . . .
“However,” Marcus added, in what I thought was a weird, low tone, “we’re always looking for new friends. Who knows? And don’t forget: Vote for Volger.”
Through the moving forest of legs, I could see Griff turn from the table and walk away. Finally! My lungs were at the breaking point. If I hadn’t suffered any brain damage from lack of oxygen, it would happen soon enough.
Then, agony. Griff’s legs stopped, and I saw him bend down to pick up the covert listening coin!!
“Twenty-five cents,” I heard him say, loud and clear. Then he added, “Five more of these and I can buy a candy bar.”
His legs walked away. My high-tech equipment, which I paid for myself, was along for the ride.
My throat and lungs were burning, my eyes were watering, and my nose? Let’s just say I never want to smell anything ever again. If not for my Camp Scout discipline combined with my own personal high pain threshold (just ask my dentist!), I wouldn’t have made it. I don’t think anyone I know would’ve lasted as long as I did. No offense, Delane.
I burst through the legs of the flabbergasted gas factories (on the opposite side of the table from Marcus, natch) and scrambled for air.
Stumbling through the cafeteria, I knew th
ree things for certain: The no matches and/or lighters on campus rule had saved my life. An ill-timed open flame would’ve meant a massive fireball. The administration needs to rethink Beans ’n’ Franks Day. The ability to hold one’s breath is vital to an officer. I must continue to practice this on a daily basis.
Griff was up to no good. I didn’t know what his plan was or how I would stop him. I knew only that I could not allow him to pollute my school nor disgrace the red belt and sash of the Rampart Middle School Safety Patrol.
If you’ve been reading this incident report closely and not skimming it (which, by your own admission, you have done in the past), you will have noticed what I didn’t do in the cafeteria. If you guessed “eat lunch,” you are 100 percent right.
I had put my devotion to duty above my own physical and practical needs. That’s just how I roll. However, I also know that in order for the human body to operate at peak efficiency, one has to ingest sufficient calories. If I find myself in class, groggy and sluggish from lack of food, I’m not justifying the student body’s trust in me. They deserve better than that.
Which is why I found myself at the west hall snack machine two periods later, trying to insert my dollar into the bill slot. The machine wouldn’t take my dollar, can you believe it? Not the first one, or any of the others I tried to jam in there. Which is surprising, since I always make a point of carrying only clean bills with few wrinkles and no tears.
I was just jotting down the 1-800 customer service number in the notepad I always keep in my breast pocket when I heard a voice say, “Even if they send you a check, how’s that going to help you now?”
It was Marcus, taking a break from the campaign trail. Yeah, who knew he even snacked? It just goes to show you that he’s a regular guy just like us and puts his pants on one leg at a time. Unless he’s sitting down, of course.
“Yeah, well,” I said philosophically, “you get what you get and you don’t get upset.” That was one Mrs. Lehman taught us in kindergarten. Still true today.
Marcus shot me a look that seemed to say he thought I was kind of being a moron, and suddenly I regretted saying anything.